


Midnight in Paris

by march_mangroves



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Author does not know how to tag properly, Coping, FrUK, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Light Historical Hetalia, M/M, or trying to atleast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28525170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/march_mangroves/pseuds/march_mangroves
Summary: It’s 1920s Paris, and a certain Frenchman cannot leave the war behind.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Midnight in Paris

Alight in a dazzlig display of luminescence, the mansion attracts the crowds akin to how a lamp attracts moths. They arrive in whatever vehicle they can grab, men and women of all social classes entering the glittering villa to be swept up in the welcoming tide.

Golden champagne pouring from every fixture to flood the crowd’s eager glasses.

Lights blazing in every corner of the vast home, chasing away any lingering darkness.

Loud music drowning out thoughts let alone conversation.

And in the center of the whirlwind of foolish celebration is one man, holding a single champagne glass as he smiles over the chaos in his dwelling.

It’s loud. It’s unbecoming. And Francis loves it. He downs his champagne with a practiced air of grace before placing it on an empty silver platter passing by.

It only takes a few seconds before he’s down in the fray, dancing with one woman after another, buying a few men a drink, and encouraging the musicians to start up another tune of that addicting jazz.

Drunken smiles all around and not a thought in sight. Only those basic desires-no needs. To drink, eat, have a good time. No time for thoughts here.

So Francis loses himself in the fervor of the party, the likes of which even America doesn’t see, and drinks and drinks and drinks.

It isn’t long before the world is spinning in more ways than one and the colors are losing their boundaries to bleed into each other. The ground’s falling out from underneath him like everything else always does when a hand catches him. The warm hold is all he can focus on as he is pulled away from the party, away from the crowd, away from the pleasure to a quiet secluded room in a dark corner of his house. Hadn’t he had all the lights lit?

Instead of turning on the light fixtures, a match is struck and a singular candle comes to life on the nightstand. Francis frowns softly at this, remembering all those nights before electricity was invented. He huffs and watches the little flame flicker in the dark of the room, fighting desperately to stave off the darkness threatening to consume it. Francis averts his eyes to the struggle only to see the little ember’s light burning in two identical jade eyes.

“Arthur.”

“You simply can’t control yourself can you?” the Brit asks, taking a place next to Francis on the love seat and pulling out a cigarette. Arthur had an uncanny habit of producing cigarettes at all times, even back in those goddamn trenches.

The Brit lights the cigarette with the struggling candle’s flame, deaf to its protests, and takes a puff. “You throw all these lavish parties and have all this bloody expensive wine." He looks in distaste at an empty wine glass perched next to the candle. "What's the point when your guests can barely keep it in their cups, and your butler is a bloody tosser, I’ll have you know. He wouldn’t even look at me when I asked him for another glass. And don’t even get me started on your maids.”

Francis isn’t really listening to the Englishman’s complaints, too busy studying the little flame to pay attention to him.

“Are you even listening to me?” He turns around to see Arthur pinning him under a scrutinizing gaze. Francis fidgets lightly in his seat with a huff and pout. “Non. Why would I listen to such a boring conversation.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “It’s not a conversation if only one person is talking, frog.”

“Well maybe if you ever talked about anything interesting, I would talk back, rosbif.”

“I beg your pardon--I’m plenty interesting!”

“Mais bien sûr, Angleterre,” Francis replies sarcastically, patting the Englishman’s shoulder before turning back to the flame.

A few moments of silence pass before Arthur breaks it with a sigh. “What are you hoping to accomplish with all this pointless extravagance?”

The flame warps as it almost dies, Francis reaching out and sheltering it with cupped palms. “Something you can’t hope to understand, Arthur.”

Arthur frowns at this, watching the light flicker in the Frenchman’s eyes. “You're rather quick to dismiss my capabilities," he mumbles before adding on, after a beat. "But if that's the case, help me understand.”

Francis turns back to give him a wry smile. “Oh mon lapin,” he murmurs softly, cupping Arthur’s cheek to look into those green eyes. “Always trying so hard to be my valiant knight in shining armour,” he teases softly.

Arthur’s face goes a brilliant red at those words, mouth opening and closing as he attempts to make a retort. “That-absolutely not- why in the world would I care-”

Francis cuts him off with a laugh, shaking his head at Arthur’s protests. “Tu es si mignon,” he teases once more just to see that brilliant blush again. Ah there it is. Francis would do anything to see it.

“I am not cute! I am-”

Francis cuts him off this time with a kiss, pulling back only when both their lungs are screaming. “Can’t you be quiet for one night, amour? And let me have this?” Francis asks softly, setting his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder. The light of the candle dims as Arthur’s cigarette crumbles.

Arthur heaves a resigned sigh, placing a gentle hand over the small of Francis’ back. “And how many more nights will you buy my silence with kisses? You ruin yourself with all this, Francis.”

“Then let me ruin myself. Anything to forget the dark.”

“How many more midnights will you spend like this?”

“Until this candle can chase away all the darkness in France,” he whispers back. He raises his head to look back at Arthur. His eyes dart from those emeralds back down to his parted lips. “So until then, mon cher,” his breath ghosting over the other’s lips, “won’t you spend another midnight in Paris with me?”

Arthur only hesitates for a moment before pressing his lips against Francis’ again in answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this influenced somewhat by my fixation with Nick and Gatsby, perhaps just a bit. Enjoy!


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